


Wait, What?

by convolutedConcussion



Category: Wynonna Earp (TV)
Genre: F/M, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Serious lack of communication, What else is new?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-27
Updated: 2016-11-27
Packaged: 2018-09-02 15:52:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 16,381
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8673337
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/convolutedConcussion/pseuds/convolutedConcussion
Summary: She scowls, but it’s the face she makes when he’s right so he doesn’t take offense.  “I can’t believe I’m the Pretty Woman Julia Roberts and not the Ocean’s Eleven Julia Roberts,” she sighs wanly.  “Just my luck.”“Okay, you’re clearly the Dermot Mulroney to my Debra Messing, please get your bad movie tropes straight,” he corrects, grinning when she gapes.  “I have cable and four older sisters, Earp.”Recovering with an exaggerated eye roll, she mumbles, “Fine, I can’t believe I’m Dermot Mulroney.”





	1. Chapter 1

These days, Wynonna Earp can pretty comfortably say that very little actually _scares_ her.

Okay, bears.

And guys who wanna get intimate with her vital organs.

_These_ things scare her—of course they do, she’s still in possession of a sense of self-preservation that works _most_ of the time.  But by her twenty-eighth birthday, she’s pretty much rolling with things as they come.  She sorta even prides herself that not too much can get her hair raising.  It probably doesn’t say many great things about her on a purely psychological level, but… well, what _does?_

That being said, when Dolls comes to her, stony-faced and somber, something about _that_ gets to her because _he_ looks nervous.  She’s _never_ seen that.  Uncertain?  Sure.  Worried?  Totally.  Never hand-wringingly anxious.

Heart hammering hard in her ears, she _barely_ hears him ask her to come to his office.

As soon as she closes the door, he whirls around before she has a chance to ask how they’re all gonna die and says in a rush, “I need you to come to Arizona and be my girlfriend for a few days.”

And… that’s sure as hell not what she was expecting.

“Um, what?” she chokes.

“I, um.”  He stops, clears his throat, doesn’t actually look at her.  “I _may_ have told my sisters we’re… dating.  Have been.  For—for a while.”

“Sisters?” she asks dumbly, voice shrill to her own ears.  “Wait, _dating?_   Wait— _sisters?_ ”

“Yeah, sisters,” he frowns.  “Are you okay?”

“We’ve been—” she sputters for half a second, trying to find the right word.  “ _Partners_ , for over a year, and you never told me you have sisters?” she demands.  “And you told them—”

“Yeah,” he winces.

Feeling suddenly like the floor is crumbling, she sits and rubs her fingers over her chin numbly.  Sisters.  Dating.  _Christ._   “I—why?”

“They…  They’re kind of, well, _involved_ in my life, as much as they can be.  And I don’t date,” he spits the word like it’s causing him actual physical pain to talk about this, “Much.  At all.”

“Noticed,” she snarks.  It falls flat.

“They always try to set me up, and it’s awkward—they think they’re helping.  At least, I think they think they’re helping.  It can be hard to tell,” he trails off thoughtfully.  “So, I lied.”  _Oh_ , she thinks.  “I didn’t think they’d—”

“Call your bluff?” she interrupts.

The glare he shoots her tells her just how right she got it.

“The youngest one—Jean—is getting married.  I just,” he steals himself.  “I need your help, Wynonna.”

Maybe it’s something about how goddamn serious he looks—like this is an actual life-or-death situation—or the way he says her name that makes a giddy sort of laughter burst through her.  Before she knows it, she’s doubled over, ribs aching, and she _can’t help it_ because this is so fucking _ridiculous_.  All the shit they’ve been through and _this_ was what he was so worried about.  She can’t stop until there are tears streaming down her cheeks, and even then she feels dangerously close to erupting again.  When she’s able to look at him without giggling again, he’s staring straight up at the ceiling, shoulders bent inward.  That, at least, is an expression she’s familiar with.

Taking a steadying breath, she doesn’t really think much before asking, “So, when’s the wedding?”

“In two weeks?”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake, dude,” she sighs, slapping her thighs, “How long have you known about this?”

“I got the save the date a… while ago,” he hedges.

“And how long have we been blissfully in love?” she grins and _oh_ is she gonna milk this for a while.  This is gonna get her through the New Year.

He groans.  “I already regret this.”

“Yeah, answer the question,” she orders.

“A year and a half, give or take,” he tells the ceiling tiles.

“You’re gonna tell me _everything_ ,” she says, pushing to her feet.

“Yeah, okay,” he nods.

“And you owe me _so huge_ ,” she continues.

“Yeah.”

\--

The rest of the day passes with no actual _work_ getting done.  Instead, Dolls finds himself subject to an interrogation that he can grudgingly admit he’s impressed by.  Honestly, he’s weirdly proud of her.  She starts with the basics, brooking no refusal, and he tells her the basics—in order from eldest to youngest, his sisters are Raven, Laurel, Kit, and Jean, ranging from ten years older than him to two years older than him (“You’re the _baby?_ ” she’d wheezed), between them they have six kids, all girls.  It takes a while for Wynonna to stop guffawing, and he’s learned to just let her wear herself out with these things.  Each is intimidating in her own way—Raven tends towards veiled threats of torture, Laurel is subtler and tends to be a listener and can draw secrets out of a person almost without them realizing, Kit will joke with someone while simultaneously twisting a knife in their side, and Jean is just _loud_.  He’s _never_ been able to lie to them, not with any consistent sort of success.  The _easiest_ and most obvious thing was to pretend the partnership with the woman he’s spent almost every waking moment with had evolved—because that’s believable, if ill-advised.  Isn’t the easiest way to lie to make it run parallel to the truth?

He really should have foreseen that at some point they’d want to _meet_ his girlfriend, especially when they passed the one-year mark.  If he’s being honest, he’d just never really thought about it.  This, he’s willing to concede, was a pretty glaring oversight on his part.  He should have been smarter than this.

“That’s one way to put it,” she mumbles.  “Five days?  This place’ll be destroyed by the time we get back.”

“Things have been quiet lately,” he counters.

She scowls, but it’s the face she makes when he’s _right_ so he doesn’t take offense.  “I can’t believe I’m the _Pretty Woman_ Julia Roberts and not the _Ocean’s Eleven_ Julia Roberts,” she sighs wanly.  “Just my luck.”

“Okay, you’re clearly the Dermot Mulroney to my Debra Messing, please get your bad movie tropes straight,” he corrects, grinning when she gapes.  “I have cable and four older sisters, Earp.”

Recovering with an exaggerated eye roll, she mumbles, “ _Fine_ , I can’t believe I’m _Dermot Mulroney_.”

\--

Cooler heads would say Wynonna _should_ have told Waves the plan the day she’d agreed to it.  They would be _right_ , don’t get her wrong, but the fact is that she sat on it for damn near a week and a half.  And even then they don’t really talk about it until the day before, when she’s packing.  It’s Dolls’ fault, she argues.  He’s a bad influence.

“Are you _sure_ this is a good idea?” Waverly worries from her doorway.  “You know, because you’re—”

“Oh, I’m sure this is a terrible idea,” she scoffs, not wanting to let her sister finish that thought.  Her own feelings are inconvenient on the best days, and she doesn’t exactly need to be reminded of them.  “But I’m pretty sure it’s part and parcel with the whole ‘partners’ gig—he saves me from… murderers and cults and that wolf that one time, and I help him save face in front of his _four sisters_.”  Somehow, it’s still _that_ that gets her.

Nose scrunching, she shakes her head, “I dunno…”

“It’ll be _fine_ , it’s not like…”  Wynonna takes a steadying breath and plasters on a bright smile.  “He’s made it _abundantly_ clear this is only to get them off his back and believe I’m real.  It’s not like I’m not fully aware he’s not…”  She shakes her head and her smirk grows wry.  “You know.”

“I _do_ know,” Waverly responds, “That’s _why_ —”

“I _know_.”  Schooling her face into an expression she hopes is more reassuring, she repeats, “It’ll be fine.”

She heaves a long sigh.  “So, I guess I’m driving you the airport?”

\--

The _whole flight_ , Wynonna keeps looking at him like she’s gonna say something.  She never _does_ , which is probably worse than anything she could possibly have in mind.  Scratch that, it’s _definitely_ worse.  He knows.  It’s been established.  It’s not until they land and are making their way to baggage claim that he sighs, “What is it?”

“Why didn’t you _tell_ me you, like—you have a _whole family_?” she asks in a pent-up rush.  “I mean—like, this is kind of a Thing to keep from someone.  I thought…” she pauses, frowning.  “Dude, I thought you _trusted_ me.”

All he can think is that this is one _hell_ of a place to have that conversation.

He opens his mouth to assure her that _of course_ he trusts her when he hears a shriek of, “Xavier!”  Then, almost before he can brace himself for it, his big sister—literally, she’s got at least an inch on him when she’s _not_ in heels—rushes him.  The bear hug is a pretty welcome distraction—also, he missed her.

When they break away, Raven scrunches her nose and pinches his cheeks, almost entirely because she knows he hates it, and coos, “Aw, you grew a beard!”

He very unsubtly shifts her focus by saying, “Raven, meet Wynonna.”

The smile he gets from his _girlfriend_ is a little too sharp, and he knows immediately that he’s gonna pay for that.  He’s not sure how or when, but she’ll get her revenge.  “Hi—oh,” she stammers, pure shock written across her face when his sister embraces her, too.

“Yeah, I meant to tell you—they’re _huggers_ ,” he says innocently.

Raven pulls back quickly.  “Oh, are you—”

“It’s fine, Dolls just isn’t—”

She’s cut off by his sister bursting into loud, delighted laughter.  “Your girlfriend calls you _Dolls_?”

This is gonna be a disaster.

To her credit, Wynonna at least looks sorry.

\--

Given the fact that Dolls came to her in such a _state_ , Wynonna did not expect Raven to be so nonthreatening.  She’s built, sure, but Wynonna was somehow expecting… she’s not sure, explicit threats right out the gate?  She realizes she has no idea what she thought she was gonna find.  There’s a familiarity in her face and the curl of her lips and the sarcastic tilt to her smile that she recognizes immediately, would recognize, she thinks, almost anywhere.  From the back seat—she and Dolls actually duked it out in a round of rock-paper-scissors over who has to take shotgun—she is in _just_ the right position to avoid most of the focus.  Admittedly out of practice with the whole “meeting the family” shtick, she figures her time will probably come, but she’ll let Dolls take center stage as much as she can.

“You _do_ know his first name, right?  Please tell me he doesn’t _make_ you call him Dolls,” Raven teases, shooting her brother a flash of a smile.

Wynonna feels her face heat and watches him cover his own face with a groan.  “No, I—I know it, it’s just… habit,” she mumbles awkwardly.  Work thing, _Dolls_ is quicker than _Xavier_ when you’re about to die.

“I will _never_ hear the end of this,” he grumbles, “So thanks for that.”  His words are undercut by the gentle smile he wears.  He, bless her amazing partner she _obviously_ does not give enough credit to, changes the subject almost seamlessly by asking, “So, how are Adrienne and the girls?”

Over the next twenty minutes, Wynonna hears _at length_ about Raven’s two daughters—Lulu, who is fifteen, and Tia, thirteen—Laurels’ _three_ —Gabriella is five, Netta is three, and Angel is two, which strikes a special kind of fear into her heart—and “their development” (Dolls seems to understand what’s being said, but she might as well be speaking Cantonese as far as Wynonna is concerned), and Kit’s six-month-old.  To someone with zero experience with children, it starts to sound _hella_ daunting.

“Could _one_ of you please give me a nephew?” he asks, heaving a put-upon sigh.

“You sound like Dad,” Raven chides. Then, catching Wynonna’s eye in the rearview mirror, “Don’t let him fool you—he _loves_ all of those girls.  Don’t make me tell her about the makeovers.”

“Makeovers?” she perks up.

“I take my duties as an uncle _very_ seriously—that includes makeovers and tea parties,” Dolls says loftily.

“Are there pictures?  Please tell me there are pictures.”  If there’s a god, she prays, there will be pictures.

\--

This _always_ happens when he comes home, this ridiculous nostalgic ache between his ribs.  He’s _thirty-two_ , for God’s sake.  He misses his family.  It’s not like he can just take regular vacations—and, make no mistake, this trip is _not sanctioned_ , but what the higher-ups don’t know…  He tries to make it to the big stuff, weddings mostly, the occasional funeral, and very rarely a holiday or two.  Something must be going on with his face while he’s unloading their bags because suddenly, and with a confidence that speaks really well to her acting skills, Wynonna takes his hand and asks lowly if he’s okay.

“I’m good,” he smiles.

“Good, you were lookin’ a little mopey, boss,” she says, light but warm, and squeezes his fingers.

“Well, I’m good,” he repeats.  The moment lasts a beat longer than it needs to before he sees Raven watching (and not even having the grace to hide it) at the edge of his vision.  He brings her hand up to brush his lips over her knuckles, murmuring, “Ready for this?”

“Yeah, yep,” she blinks, brow furrowing before her expression clears.  “Let’s do it.”

He shoves her bags into her hands before she can stick him with bringing everything in by himself.  The flash of disappointment he sees in her eyes tells him how right he was to suspect it.  Raven’s eyebrows do something quizzical when he catches her eye and he just thanks the universe it was _her_ and not Kit, who would not be nearly as reasonable.  Make no mistake, Raven will have plenty of time to be _unreasonable_ , but she prefers a slow burn.  Kit would call the whole family out to humiliate him.

As they walk up to the door, Wynonna positions herself half-behind him—he assumes it’s more about strategy than actual apprehension.  She at least doesn’t _look_ overly nervous.  In fact, she looks weirdly zen.  Maybe he should be worried.

Before they’re even through the door, he’s attacked with the dual fury of two teenage girls—

“Uncle X, thank _God_ —”

“—Uncle X, tell Lulu—”

“—you _have_ to talk to Mom—”

“—just shut up—”

“—I don’t need a _baby_ sitter—”

“—she’s just—”

“— _fifteen_ —”

“Girls,” Raven booms over the din effortlessly behind them, door swinging shut with a crack.  “I _know_ that’s not how you say hello to your uncle.”

Thoroughly chastised, Lulu (Lucile when Raven or Adrianne are particularly upset) and Tia go quiet, mumbling apologies as they hug him and say almost in unison, “Hi, Uncle Xavier.”

“Hello, girls,” he greets, dipping his head to assure quietly Lulu, “I’ll talk to your mom.”

“Why don’t you two go see if Grandma needs help with lunch, huh?” Raven suggests in a voice that clearly will accept no argument.  As they leave, arguing once again, she sighs, _“Teenagers.”_

\--

There are probably better first impressions she could have made.  Like, in a perfect world, the first thing she said to Kit and Laurel would _not_ have been, “Are you _all_ Amazons or…?”

This is not a perfect world, though, and those are _exactly_ the first things she says to Kit and Laurel.

Beside her, Dolls snickers.  At least someone’s enjoying this.

“Well, Jean’s like five-two, but don’t bring it up around her.  It’s a touchy subject,” Kit fires back confidentially.  “It’s good to finally meet you—we were starting to think he made you up.”

As she’s ushered further inside and past the foyer, she says lowly, “I’ll let you in on a secret, I’m _definitely_ just an escort he paid to come with him.”  Dolls rolls his eyes even as his sisters laugh.  She gives him her best approximation of an innocent grin.

“Like I make enough on a government salary to pay someone for the better part of a week.”

“I was promised I’d be paid in food, there was no talk of money,” she tells them, voice steady and matter-of-fact.  His hand skims over her back and he honest-to-god _smiles_ at her in that way that makes her feel all squirmy.  Oh, she could _so_ get used to _that_.

Soon after—after being introduced to Laurel’s husband, Omar, who’s about as tall as Waves; Kit’s husband, John, quiet but sharp-witted; and Raven’s wife, Adrienne, who tells her not to worry too much when she hugs her—they’re allowed to go upstairs, with strict orders from Raven who goes effortlessly from laughter to drill-sergeant to drop off their luggage and “not get distracted.”  The warning has kinda the opposite effect because now she’s just distracted by all the ways she’d happily let him, well, _distract_ her.

As soon as the door closes behind them, he rounds on her with a sardonic, “Seriously?”

“What?  I’m not getting _paid_ for this,” she replies.

“You’re ridiculous,” he sighs, but there’s no heat in his voice.

“Uh-huh.  We should probably have this conversation later—I certainly don’t want anyone thinking you couldn’t keep your hands to yourself,” she teases grimly.

He doesn’t immediately respond _or_ get the door and her eyebrows climb.

“Are you waiting for me to promise to be good?” she asks as sweetly as she can.  “Because _that’s_ not fair—wasn’t part of the deal.”

“No, it’s—I’m sorry.  For not telling you.  I _do_ trust you, you know,” he says, so quiet and earnest her throat tightens.

“Well…” she puffs out uncomfortably.  Now she feels kinda shitty about it—the guy doesn’t _owe_ her anything, not an explanation and certainly not… disclosure, or whatever.  It’s just that now she’s painfully aware that he’s elbow-deep in her life and all the bullshit that entails, but she has to fight tooth-and-nail to find out _anything_ about him.  You’d think that on _one_ of those late nights at the station, something like _an entire family_ woulda come up.

But she doesn’t know how to say any of that without making herself feel small and—

“Hey,” he whispers, almost reaching for her before his hand falls to his side.  It stings, but she wouldn’t know what to do with it, anyway.

Shaking her head sharply, she smiles wide.  “Never mind.”  Then, because she needs to change the subject _badly_ , “So, they’re _all_ huggers?  And you couldn’t’ve mentioned that?”

\--

Once they get downstairs, his hand finds hers and he pulls her into the kitchen to introduce Wynonna to his mom.  It makes him nervous in spite of the glaring fact that none of this is actually real.  If her grip on his fingers is anything go by, she’s _at least_ as anxious about him as he is.  The kitchen is big and warm and bustling and loud and Laurel’s girls are darting around underfoot.  They find his mother at the island making potato salad.  She stops to give him a hug, accepts the kiss he plants on her cheek, then turns her attention to Wynonna, whose face he can’t quite read before she smiles, bright and only a little forced.

The regular pleasantries are said—“So happy to meet you,” “Thanks so much for having me,” “Everything smells great,”—before he hears, “We _never_ thought we’d get Xavier to bring you home—way he talked, we almost thought you were too good to be true.”

“Mama,” he finds himself groaning, face warming.

“I’m just sayin’, all we hear him talk about is you, and he has _never_ said a bad thing,” she says warmly.

“I can’t tell if that’s incredibly sweet, or if he’s trying to set me up for failure for a laugh,” she laughs, cheeks pink as she tucks her fingers into his elbow.

“Well, if I ever _had_ anything negative to say…” he replies in the same tone, not really able to stifle the embarrassment souring in his gut.

She wrinkles her nose up at him and murmurs, “You’re so cheesy.”

A half a moment too long later—long enough that his mother’s eyes twinkle knowingly—he asks, “Do you need any help in here?”

“No, but your father’s out back with the grill, so if you could…” she mimes walking with her fingers.

“Yes ma’am,” he chuckles.

He leads Wynonna out back, glancing at her curiously.  In answer, she nudges her shoulder against his.  It’s close enough to fall that, in the shade cast by the house, it’s almost chilly, but he hears her mumble with extreme prejudice about the heat.  His dad’s tending sizzling burgers and hot dogs and the smell reminds him of the Fourth of July as a kid.  There’s an old radio on the porch railing—older than he is, almost—playing low enough to be indistinct.

“Hey, Dad,” he greets.

His father turns, barely even looks at him (which he tries not to be offended by) before his sharp gaze is on the woman next to him.  “Well!  It’s about damn time this boy brought you around!”


	2. Chapter 2

At some point, Wynonna abandoned him like the traitor she is and Dolls is left to be accosted by his sisters for their assessment.  And, honestly, if he had _ever_ given it any kind of thought, he could have foreseen this—they _like_ her.  It’s probably in large part because she gleefully shares in his humiliation (he _definitely_ should have predicted _that_ ), but Wynonna’s… she’s _funny_ , and better with people than she thinks because she’s never around people who know who she is whose judgement _isn’t_ being clouded by hatred for something she did when she was a child—better than she realizes.  She’s visibly nervous to _him_ , but she does what she always does, masks that with an open, self-deprecation that’s disarming.  In the end, it boils down to her being _really good_ at this, and being as much herself as he’s ever seen her.

That being said, Dolls can only take ten solid minutes of his sisters’ _gushing_ and _teasing_ before he extricates himself from the fray to hide—yes, _hide,_ and he’s man enough to admit it—in his childhood bedroom.  He flops across the bed— _not_ , thank God, the twin he’d had as a teenager, it had been transformed into a guest room almost as soon as he’d graduated—and does his level best not to think about it.  Just when he’s beginning to wonder where she _is_ , the door swings open and the universe or face or a particularly angry god deposits a wet, towel-clad Wynonna almost into his lap.

“Jesus, why are you _naked_?” he hisses, slapping his hand over his eyes.

She snorts.  “Okay, first of all?  _No one_ will believe we’ve been together for over a year if you recoil of the sight of me in a towel,” she mocks helpfully.  He hears her unzip her suitcase.

“Is there a second point?” he asks tightly.

“Oh!  Um, I forgot to bring clothes to the bathroom, that’s all,” she answers distractedly.  After a few moments, he hears, “I’m dressed now, you can look less distressed.”

When he looks, she’s toweling her hair and odd, thoughtful look.  “What?”

“Nothing,” she laughs, draping the towel over the bed’s footboard.

He’s still on top of most of the comforter when she pulls the corner up and he offers uncertainly, “I can take the floor?”

“Don’t be stupid,” she scolds quickly, softened by the way she smiles.  “I’m not gonna ask you to sleep on the floor in your parents’ _house_.  Talk about rude.”  With her head on the pillow and her damp hair and her low voice sweet like syrup, it feels somehow more intimate than it has any right to.  “I’ll keep my hands to myself, promise.”

He doesn’t correct her.

\--

As comes to a surprise to absolutely no-fucking-body, Wynonna is a bona fide _pro_ at sliding out of a stranger’s bed, into last night’s jeans, and out the door without waking whoever the bed actually belongs to.  No _Coyote_ _Ugly_ -style self-mutilation required, she’s got this down pat.  That means that, when confronted by her partner still snoring gently, draped across her chest, she _has_ the skill to get herself outta this potentially mortifying situation without so much as interrupting whatever dream about perfectly-organized paperwork he’s having.  Somehow, though, years of practice immediately tumble right outta her head and probably somewhere on the duvet.  She’s a little wrapped up in him, and she can smell the vestiges of yesterday’s cologne as if it were part of her skin, and his arm is slung low across her hips.  For a period of time she can’t even _begin_ to conceptualize because she’s on an entirely different damn plane of existence, she’s just… frozen there, heart pounding so hard she can’t believe it hasn’t woken him all its own.

The spell is broken when he makes a soft, mewling sort of noise and shifts, rubbing his stubble-covered cheek against her collarbone, and she shoots out of bed like she’s been _burned._

He pushes up onto his elbow with a groggy grunt, “Whuh?”

“Oh, good, you’re up,” she says casually, ignoring the slow flip her stomach does when he digs the heel of his hand into his eye, bizarrely childish.  Instead, she looks down at her pajamas, a tank top and shorts that feel suddenly _very_ small.  “Would it be better if I changed before I go downstairs?”

“S’fine,” he slurs.  It takes him a _shocking_ amount of time to pull himself out of bed, sluggish and still clinging to sleep in a way that makes her worry a little.  He scrubs his hands over his face and mumbles pleadingly, “Coffee?”

In rumpled pajamas and looking like he could nod off where he stands, he looks so strangely _touchable_ that Wynonna has to talk half a step backwards.  “Yeah,” she croaks.  “Yeah, coffee.”

The only person they find downstairs is his dad at the dining table, paper spread out before him and reading glasses perched low on his nose.  She’s struck by how alike they look.  He gives them a deep, distracted, “Good morning,” without lifting his gaze as they pass.  Because he _clearly_ needs it more, she lets Dolls go first, leans a little closer in the large space while he doctors a mug.  He shuffles _just barely_ out of the way when he’s done, forcing her to make her own coffee practically on top of him.

Instead of putting some space between them like she _should_ , like any normal person _would_ , she turns to rest back against the counter.  After a minute or two of silence, long enough to gulp down half her coffee, she muses, “I can’t believe my whole life is a lie.”  She only gets a questioning sort of hum in response.  “I mean, you always seemed like a morning person.”

“Because I don’t wake up at noon?” he scoffs.

“I do not sleep until _noon_ ,” she gasps, feigning offense.

“Sure, sure.”  His tone is jokingly dismissive, but his lopsided smile makes her lose track of her dog in this fight.

She tosses back the last dregs of her drink, still close enough to him that she can feel his body heat.  When she glances over, she can see his dad’s watching them thoughtfully.  Suddenly inexplicably bashful, she stops Dolls from moving around her towards the pot with an overly familiar hand on his hip and whispers, “I’ll get it.”

“You sure?”

“Go say good morning to your dad, _Xavier_ ,” she murmurs playfully.  The name feels awkward and foreign on her tongue, but that’s forgotten the moment he combs his fingers through her hair.

\--

There’s a flash of—it’s not _quite_ sadness, but something in the same family in her eyes that makes him want to stay, but she’s pushing at his hip, and he goes without argument.  His father is back to skimming the paper when he sits and he finds himself saying, “That _can’t_ be good for your blood pressure.”

“Only danger to my blood pressure here is a full house,” he jokes.

Huffing a laugh, he counters, “We _always_ offer to stay at hotels.”

“Blame your mother,” his father answers blithely.  “I do.”

“Careful, she might hear you.”

The truth is, his parents _both_ insist of having them stay there when they’re in town.  The truth is, his parents have always had one of those bizarrely Hallmark-movie relationships—he can’t remember a time when he doubted how very much in love they are after all these years.  (Dad once told him it’s because she’s his best friend, that’s the key.)  He can’t remember a time when he didn’t _know_ , deep down, this house is full of love.  It sounds overly sentimental, but it also happens to be _true_.

A steaming mug is set down in front of him, effectively cutting off his line of thought, as fingers squeeze his shoulder.  He tips his head back and says, “Thanks, babe.”

“Uh-huh,” she smirks, small and wry.  “I’m gonna go get dressed.”  Then, smiling a little more naturally, she shifts her attention with a bright, “Morning, Mr.—” she stops at his father’s look, like he’s on the verge of correcting her, “Eddie.”

Dolls busies himself with his coffee as his father takes her hand in both of his and asks if she slept okay.  Sounding more sincerely polite than he’s _ever_ heard her, she assures him he did, thanks him, makes an off-hand comment about being used to snoring that he resents (he doesn’t _snore_ ).  Then he hears, “You know, we’re so happy to have you here.”

His eyes flit up to her face just in time to see a quick spark of emotion there before she tips her head down, affectedly shy.  “I—thank you,” she replies, voice only a little strained.

After she’s gone, he asks too conversationally, “What was that?”

“What?” he demands defensively.  “I can’t be hospitable?”

Lips twisting, he grunts a quick, “Mhm.”  There’s a dull stab of guilt deep in his stomach.  He can feel eyes on him as his own fall to the table.

\--

Eyes itchy and throat tight, Wynonna makes it back into the bedroom without incident _somehow_.  She leans back into the door, has to swallow several heaving breaths until the lump in her throat shrinks to a manageable size.  It was just the unexpected _sincerity_ of what he’d said—it caught her off-guard.  Still feeling a little like she’ll shatter with one false move, she takes her time getting dressed.  Honestly, she takes a _truly absurd_ amount of time to pull her hair back into a ponytail, to shimmy into her jeans, to drag her top over her head.  She takes so long, in fact, she guesses Dolls must start to worry because at some point—she maybe started daydreaming—there’s a soft tap at the door.

He’s holding out a powdered donut on a napkin like it’s the only way she’ll let him in.  He’s probably not wrong.  “Laurel brought donuts,” he says simply.

The door next to theirs slams, and Kit passes behind her as she’s sighing, “Oh, you _do_ love me.”

Face hidden from his sister’s view, he’s safe to roll his eyes and pin her with an incredulous look.  She’s happy to busy herself with shoving as much sugary goodness into her mouth as possible while he skirts around her into the room and she pulls the door shut.  Now, she’s distantly aware that he asks her _something_ , but at that same moment he’s tugging his shirt up over his head and she’s only human.  After a moment, he turns to look at her expectantly and she lets out an elegant, “Huh?”

“You okay?”

“I’m _fine_ ,” she tells the wall over his shoulder because he’s still not wearing a shirt.  “It’s just that you should _really_ warn a person when you’re gonna start stripping.”  The look he gives her is kinda funny and she realizes that’s not what he’s asking.  “Oh.”  He ducks his head as she repeats, “I’m fine, really.  You don’t need to worry about me.”

It’s the kind of lie he doesn’t seem to be able to call out, so there’s that.  The pause isn’t as awkward as it _could_ be.  Eventually, he turns to rummage for something to change in to.  She becomes _very_ interested in texting Nicole.

When he’s wearing _clothes_ again, she says thoughtfully, “We’re on vacation.  What do people _do_ on vacation?”

The last time she’d had a free moment outside of Purgatory feels like decades ago.

He stares at her curiously.  “What do you want to do?”

\--

They’re enlisted by Raven to come with her, Adrienne, and the girls to the mall because _somebody_ forgot to pack their dresses for the wedding.  Well, _he’s_ enlisted, strictly speaking, but Raven only _asks_ Wynonna rather than ordering her because she assumes she’s not used to being volun-told for tasks.  They all cram into her Grand Cherokee, and, shoulder-to-shoulder in the middle row, Wynonna asks slyly if his whole family has “a thing for SUVs.”  Her voice is so low only he can hear and he snorts.

“I’m just sayin’,” she teases, knocking her knee against his.  “I’ve seen _three_ and I’ve only met your _sisters_.”

“They’re sports _utility_ vehicles—we use them for _utilitarian_ purposes,” he says, mockingly exasperated.

“I dunno,” she hums doubtfully.  “You seemed _really_ upset when Enterprise only had sedans.”  When he doesn’t respond, she continues in the same tone, “Is it a size thing?  Do you just like being the biggest dick on the road?  I mean, you kinda _drive_ like a dick.”

“I drive like we’re in an emergency vehicle because it’s an emergency vehicle.  Flashing lights, Wynonna.”  Then, belatedly, he scolds, “And stop saying ‘dick’ in front of my nieces.”

“I bet you $20 Tia hears worse at first period.”

Rolling his eyes, he digs his elbow into her side.  She gives him a sugary-sweet smile, but she goes quiet for the rest of the ride, eyes out the window.  In the parking lot, her fingers find his, grip loose and comfortable.  On his other side, Raven grabs his elbow and quirks an eyebrow that he pretends not to see.  Almost as soon as they get into the main entrance, Wynonna starts tugging him towards a Hagen Daaz stand.

“Seriously?” he asks.  “You _just_ ate half your body weight in donuts.”

“I didn’t come here to be shamed,” she says indignantly.  She lets herself be led away, though.  As they come upon a row of kiosks and their aggressive vendors, she looks at him seriously and says, “Laugh at something I’m saying.”

“Don’t… don’t reference _Winter Soldier_ ,” he replies.

“I’m in a mall… undercover… with my fake boyfriend…” she counters slowly, low enough so she’s not heard over the din.  “If you know of a more apt reference…” she trails off expectantly, sharp chin tipping up into the air.

Almost against his will, he chuckles.  They follow his nieces into different stores.  They find dresses fairly quickly, but there’s no rush to get back to the house, no rush to go anywhere, really, and in each store Wynonna wanders as far as his grasp will let her.  She models jewelry, lets her free hand slip over fabric as they pass, drops hats onto his head—and he _lets_ her, helpless to her genuine, pleased grin—phone out and snapping pictures before he can even _think_ about stopping her.  He watches judgmentally when she buys socks with pot leaves on them at Spencer’s.  When they come to a Hot Topic, she goes to follow the girls inside but he’s very firm on not stepping foot in there.

“There’s a story there,” she says.  He doesn’t say anything, so she continues excitedly, “I’m gonna ask Raven if you don’t tell me.  Did you go through a _goth phase_?  Please tell me that’s it.”

“I just don’t like the music,” he grumbles.  She looks a little crestfallen, so he qualifies, “I’d call it a punk phase.”

“Oh, I wish I’d gotten that on camera,” she sighs wistfully.

\--

By lunch, Wynonna feels like she’s gonna lose her damn mind.  It’s not like she wasn’t fully and completely aware of how alarmingly gentle Dolls can be.  _Knowing_ it and even having been on the receiving end of it doesn’t make it any less fucking surreal.  It’s not just with her—obviously, it’s not even _mostly_ with her.  It’s the way he teases Lulu and Tia and laughs when Raven insists he spoils them every time he sees them, how indulgent he is at every turn.  There’s something about him _here_ that’s soft and expressive in a way she hasn’t actually seen before, different from how he’s been in Purgatory in a way that makes something scary and big swell in her chest.  There’s also a sick edge of guilt, though.  She feels out of place, intrusive, like she’s witnessing something _private_ that she’s got no right to.  There are a couple of moments when she catches him peering over at her like he’s got a question; each time, she smirks and slides her hand over his back and shakes her head minutely, broadcasting _I’m okay_ , _this is fine_ , as much as she can.  Each time, there’s that twist in her belly.

They all break up for lunch at the food court, but he sticks by her side, arm draped around her shoulders.  “You don’t have to come with me,” she points out.

“I mean, you’re not wrong, but I also want Little Greek,” he says, smirking.  Gaping, she doesn’t get a chance to ask _how_ before, “I _know_ you, Earp.  You want a bad gyro with extra onions—which, by the way, if you think I’m kissing you—”

“Adorable,” she scoffs.

When they get their food, he pays and makes a slick comment about how he’s fulfilling their “compensatory arrangement.”  She glares.  “What?” he asks, wide-eyed.

“I hope you know I hate so much of what you choose to do,” she says suspiciously.

“Oh?”  He’s wearing that smug, crooked smile that makes her heart skip.

Before too long, she looks down and starts fiddling with her napkin because it’s unfair to expect her to _look_ at that for more than a few seconds.  The chatter all around them is oddly soothing, white noise.  She feels his toes knock against hers and she scowls, tossing the mangled napkin at his face.  “How _old_ are you?”

“I dunno what you’re talking about,” he snickers.

“I never wanna hear another remark about _my_ maturity level _ever_ again,” she huffs, disgruntled.


	3. Chapter 3

The first time he wakes up, Dolls is happy to stay right where he is, curled around Wynonna with her breath tickling his throat.  He’s got the smell of her shampoo clinging to his nose, fogging his sleepy brain.  His eyes slip closed as she nudges her nose into his neck and makes a soft noise.  The next time, she’s sitting up, rubbing her face.  He can’t hear any noises from the rest of the house, they could sleep longer, a point he tries to argue by eloquently muttering half into the pillow, “Sleep,” and reaching unthinkingly for her, hand landing over the blanket on her thigh.

He sees her glance down for a moment before she croaks, “I have to pee.”  He’s too tired to figure out the look she’s giving him.

Grunting, he withdraws his hand and tucks it under his pillow.  With a gentle grumble, she yawns and stretches her way out of bed and he can’t quite look away from the sliver of pale skin the movement bares.  Without her in it, the bed feels cold and after a few minutes he sort of accepts with a dull defeat that he’s not going back to sleep.  It takes even _longer_ to pull himself from under the tangle of comforter and sheet.  He figures he might as well get a head start on that full pot of coffee he’s gonna need to feel like a functioning human being again, so he stumbles out into the hallway.  There, he finds Wynonna laughing at something Adrienne is saying.  They both look at him in the same moment and his sister-in-law says ominously, “Speak of the devil.”

“I don’t like that…”  Adrienne has known him since he was sixteen—there’s _nothing_ good that could come of this.

“It was nothing bad,” Wynonna assures him as he comes closer, and his skin tingles when she brushes her fingers over his arm.  “Not too bad, anyway.”

“I regret so much,” he groans.

Her smile goes small and private and _fond_ , he thinks, as she says, “Don’t worry.”

It doesn’t do too much to sooth him, but it _does_ distract him a little.  “Okay,” he answers absently.  He just wants to go back to bed.  It’s his vacation, dammit.

He doesn’t realize he’s spoken— _petulantly,_ at that—until she snickers, ducking her head so her forehead nudges his shoulder.  “God, have you always been _such_ a _baby?”_

“Pretty much,” Adrienne supplies helpfully.

“Don’t you have a wife to bother?”

“Sure,” she shrugs.  “But I see _her_ every day.”  Before he can respond, she turns back to Wynonna with, “C’mon, Ray’s making pancakes.  He’s gonna take at _least_ twenty minutes to get downstairs.”

He doesn’t immediately process what happens next—by the time he _does_ , they’re already gone, but he can still feel where her lips had brushed the corner of his mouth.  With a long sigh, he slouches off to the bathroom, feeling suddenly off-kilter.

\--

In the kitchen, Wynonna is greeted by a chorus of good mornings that vary widely in degree of wakefulness.  Kit is hovering next to the stove, slicing fruit, while Raven flips pancakes, and Lulu and Tia sneak out with a handful of strawberries.  They let her make her coffee and decline her offer of help, citing the _one_ time she set the stove on fire at the homestead, which Dolls apparently told them about (and which he will be hearing about).  Pretending to be offended, she hops up onto a barstool at the island.  Before a full minute passes, Kit abandons her work to lean across the counter and asks, “How did you and X meet, anyway?  He won’t tell us.”

Her tone is gentle, light, teasing, but she’s wearing a Look that Wynonna both recognizes and was never particularly great at lying in the face of—so she answers honestly, with a feigned nonchalance that probably fools no one, “Well, I pulled a knife on him…”  At the three surprised stares she gets, she laughs uneasily and supplies, “He was this weird guy in a suit trying to recruit me to his shady outfit and I was in town for my uncle’s funeral—it wasn’t my best day.”

To her shock, the room erupts into raucous laughter.  All things considered, it’s a helluva lot better than she could have hoped for, but she omits the part that she _also_ socked him in the face to herself.  Somehow, she can’t see that going over quite as well, and she has no intentions of actually dying on this vacation.  She’s asked a barrage of questions—what did she do before she went back to Purgatory?  What did she want to do after?  (This one gives her pause; she hasn’t thought past “tomorrow” since… well, not recently.)  What does she do when she’s not working?  Did she go to college?  It goes on and on until she feels laid bare, but they must have known at least enough not to ask about her family.  As if summoned by her growing discomfort—there’s only so many things she can reveal about herself before she starts to feel like she’s only pretending to be a real person—everyone falls quiet and she turns to follow their gaze to find Dolls gingerly holding a fussy baby (Kit’s little one, Kira, her mind supplies helpfully).

Kit reaches for her, but he shakes his head easily.  “I got her.  Bottle?”

Once he’s given one, he takes the stool next to Wynonna, and she does her best to keep her face from showing that her heart has migrated somewhere under her throat.  She has pretty limited experience with children—read:  none—but him?  He looks confident and totally at ease, all practiced motions, and she feels a little like she’s about to spontaneously combust.  Every time he moves, his elbow brushes hers, and she’s finding it super difficult to bring her focus back to the conversation that’s started back up.

 _Distance._   Distance would help.  She slides off her perch to refill her coffee even though her mug’s still half-full.  When she’s able to breathe normally again, she makes him a cup, too, feeling charitable even though he clearly _isnt_.  She reclaims her spot next to him only when she can’t think of a reason not to, slides his coffee in front of him, and watches with nothing short of amazement as he somehow feeds and holds the baby one-handed so he can take a sip.

She maybe forgets other people can see her.

“You look like you’ve never fed a baby before,” Kit laughs,

She starts to protest—to _lie_ —when Raven exclaims, “You’ve never fed a baby before!”

“This is your fault,” she tells Dolls darkly.

\--

After a day full of dicking around—which feels foreign and frankly awesome after being in constant motion for a year and a half—Dolls is all too happy to take Kit up on the suggestion that they all go out for drinks.  The bar is one they _always_ go to whenever they’re all home.  It’s not quite got the _charm_ of Shorty’s, but it has the distinction of being the first bar he’d ever (legally) visited, a story which Raven and Jean are all too happy to recount for Wynonna.  He tries not to be mortified by the retelling of a night featuring too much tequila and too few clothes and an incident involving dancing on the pool table while she gives him an appraising look before, “I can’t believe you weren’t always a robot.”

“Rude,” he admonishes without any real heat.  Her arm slips around his waist as she gives him a quick, apologetic smirk and bumps her chin into his shoulder.  “I’m fun—you act like I’m not fun.”

“You’re very fun,” she tells him automatically.

“No offense,” Kit calls over to them, “But y’all are gross.  Also, it’s your turn.”

He shoots his sister a look, but she’s immune and only offers an unrepentant Cheshire-cat grin as Wynonna lines up her shot.  Next to them, Raven and Jean battle it out intensely while Adrienne and Alex chat idly, ignoring the trash talk being hurled before them.  Laurel and John, never very interested in pool and both non-confrontational enough to not want to get involved where the more competitive siblings are concerned, have appropriated the closest table.

Wynonna’s back at his side quickly, slouching and sighing dramatically, “I’ve brought disgrace on our team.”

“Good thing our relationship isn’t built on your pool skills,” he says, nudging her side.

“So glad we opted for the less important ‘trust’ and ‘respect’ or we never woulda lasted,” she replies.

Behind him, Jean makes gagging noises and he whirls around.  “You’re _thirty-four_ ,” he reminds her.  “ _And_ getting married in two days!”

“Just means your next,” Raven shoots back, sing-song.

While he’s busy choking on that, Wynonna playfully whacks him on the chest and asks, “Oh, he didn’t tell you?  We just plan on living in sin for fifteen years.”  She looks satisfied by the chuckles that gets her and drains the rest of her beer.  “I need a refill—want one?”  His head bobs and he pretends not to notice the way her lips twist when he hands her a twenty.  “I didn’t realize _booze_ was part of my payment or I’d’ve taken advantage of that sooner,” she says quietly.

“Don’t get used to it,” he warns with a quick wink before giving her a gentle shove towards the bar.

He’s distracted enough watching her walk away that he isn’t able to dodge it when Kit descends on him, pinching his cheek and announcing, “Look at this loser.  Could you please keep it in your pants?”

“Please,” Raven emphasizes, voice cracking with exaggerated desperation.

“I didn’t come out to be attacked tonight,” he grumbles good-naturedly, shrugging his big sister off.  “And I’m not even _doing_ anything.”

“Your tongue was hanging out,” Kit teases.

He looks around for help—from anyone, but Laurel and John are having some sort of conveniently deep conversation, Alex is inspecting his pool cue, and Adrienne and Jean are clutching each other with stifled laughter.  “I hope you all know I hate you,” he says vehemently.

\--

Buzzing pleasantly, Wynonna stays at the bar a moment too long before flinging herself back into the fray.  Luckily, most of the teasing is directed more at Dolls than at her, but there’s still a hot flush of embarrassment every time anyone says anything.  She knows it’s in good fun, though, she just… needs a moment.  She realizes with a little quiver of surprise that she’s actually really enjoying herself.  Sure, she’s felt like she’s on unsteady ground the whole time, but—his family’s welcomed him, and the teasing and mocking and prodding probably just comes with that because it _feels_ familiar.  There’s also this tinge of dread for when they go back and everything goes back to normal.  She’s gonna _miss_ this.

There’s not enough beer or time in the world to get her to contemplate _that_ epiphany.

She stops too close to Dolls to give him his bottle and hears him murmur, “Where’s my change?”

Smiling playfully, she says, “I’ll give you three guesses, but you’ll have to search me to find out if you’re right.”

“Oh my _god_ ,” he moans, walking away from her to take his turn at the table.

By the time the game is finished—they’re _destroyed_ , by the way, because she’s not the _only_ one with no skills—they crowd around the little table Laurel’s been jealously guarding where she’s ordered roughly enough food for a small army.  She’s not sure how, but she gets separated from Dolls’ side and instead gets sandwiched between Jean and Kit, who are talking over her head and only occasionally require her input.  That’s great, because she’s busy snagging as many mozzarella sticks as she can get her greedy hands on.

She’s not sure who suggests shots, but she’s not nearly intimidated by the situation to turn it down.

The night devolves from there. 

\--

His glaringly bright phone tells him it’s past three in the morning when Dolls wakes up, alone and disoriented and a little sick to his stomach.  Curious, he pushes out of bed and feels his way in the dark out into the hall.  The angry edge of his hangover is already biting into him, so he doesn’t flip the switch for the hallway light, but the bathroom is empty.  He tiptoes downstairs into the living room.  There’s light filtering in from the kitchen, and he hears indistinct murmuring from inside, follows the sound.  What he finds makes something inside him go painfully tight—his mom, wrapped up in her robe, hand on Wynonna’s arm, as Wynonna says something he can’t quite make out.  There are mugs on the island next to them.  Just as he’s contemplating whether or not he should just sneak back into bed—they don’t need him, there’s no reason to intrude, whatever _this_ is feels private—she wipes her cheek and looks away and he’s caught.

He comes closer without knowing quite why except that it would just be weird if he ran off now.  His mother’s hand covers Wynonna’s own and he hears himself explaining, “I woke up and you weren’t there.”  It’s not until a moment later that he realizes it sounds one hell of a lot like an admission he didn’t mean to make.  “I didn’t mean to interrupt, I can—”

“No,” Wynonna cuts him off, shaking her head and looking down at their clasped hands.  “I should let you go back to bed, Gloria,” she says apologetically, small like he’s never heard her.  “Thanks for the…” she waves vaguely at the cup he can see now is still full.

“Any time, baby,” she answers warmly, taking her into her arms and he can _see_ her melt into the hug, watches the fight bleed out of her face.  It’s so quiet he’s pretty sure he can hear his own heart shatter, which is almost maudlin enough to make him disgusted with himself.  His mother says something he doesn’t catch before pulling away and cupping Wynonna’s face for a beat, a comforting gesture that’s achingly familiar, then stands and accepts the peck he plants on her temple.  The look she gives him is full of meaning but he can’t figure out _what_ meaning.

Then she’s gone, and they’re alone and something about it feels significant.

“Are you—”

“You told them,” she says softly, face hidden by her hair.

A chill settles in his gut.  Mouth dry, he stammers, “I—I’m sorry, it wasn’t my place.”

“That’s not what—” she stops, finally looks at him with a naked pain that sucks all the breath out of him.  “You told them it wasn’t my _fault_ ,” her voice cracks and she frowns.

He wants to tell her it wasn’t.  He wants to tell her she was a little kid.  He wants to tell her he—

“You, um,” she bites her lip.  “You wanna go back to bed?”

He _doesn’t_.  “Yeah,” he says.

His feet feel too heavy with every step that brings him closer to the bedroom.  Without looking at him, without _speaking_ to him, she climbs into bed, collapsing into the pillow.  The mattress that had felt so small nights ago is now wide enough to accommodate the new gulf between them and all he wants to do is reach for her, but he _can’t_ and it’s _his fault_.  He can hear her breathing, forcedly steady.  Then, he hears her roll over.

“No offense,” she whispers, “But I _never_ wanna do this again.”  He opens his mouth to apologize when she continues, scowl evident in her voice, “I don’t _like_ lying to your family.”

There are a thousand things pressing behind his teeth that want to be said.  Instead, he twines their fingers in the dark and hopes that’s somehow better.


	4. Chapter 4

If asked, Wynonna wouldn’t even know where to _begin_ to explain what exactly she’s feeling, watching Dolls patiently, painstakingly paint the nails of a five-year-old.  (She’d been equally clueless when the child had insisted on painting _his_ , half an hour before.  They’re hot pink and messy.)  She’s not quite sure how to feel about _anything_ at the moment, to be totally honest.  A week ago, _two days_ ago, she... she had her emotions, inconvenient though they were, on lock.  But now he’s wearing that meltingly warm smile on his ( _stupid_ ) face and she can’t remember how to _breathe_ let alone how to feel things like a regular person.  How could she have been so irresponsible as to let herself be talked in to babysitting with _this man_?  She should have run off with his parents to take the teenagers to see a movie she’d heard Raven expressly state was _not kid-appropriate, Mom._

Instead, she’s here, and she’s watched the same saccharine princess movie about three times.  She’s elbow-deep in a personal crisis when the baby starts fussing.

“Can you get her?” he asks in that same polite, patient tone he’s used with the girls all night.

“Um,” she says.  _Smooth_ , she thinks bitterly.

“Unless you want to explain to Laurel how nail polish got all over her carpet?” he suggests, turning to arch a brow at her.

Feigning a put-upon sigh to hide her nervousness, she slumps over to the carrier where Kira had been put to sleep.  Trying her best to mimic how she’d seen him handle her, she picks her up to cradle her against her chest.  The baby wriggles dangerously.  She must be doing _something_ wrong, if the way her elbow juts out awkwardly is anything to go by, but she cannot for the life of her figure it out.  Behind her, he tries to bite off a laugh, which she resents.

“Okay, kiddo, shake it out and touch _nothing_ ,” he says as Wynonna turns slowly, ever wary of the fragile real-life infant she’s holding.  “I can’t believe you’ve never held a baby before,” he murmurs, amused, gently guiding her arms in a more comfortable position until Kira stills, secure against her.  “Better?”

“How can you not believe that?” she demands, not fully able to bring herself to look at him.  “You’ve _met_ me.”

“You’re doing fine,” he tells her, voice pitched low as his hands linger on her arms.  It’s probably just so he can make sure she doesn’t just decide to drop her.  “Sit down, I’ll get a bottle, okay?”

“I hope that means you’ll be feeding her!” she whisper-shouts at his back.  From the floor, Gabriella watches her with about as much as someone under the legal drinking age has ever looked at Wynonna.  She doesn’t really blame the kid.

Moving like she’s on a tightrope, she makes her way back over to the couch.  Everything feels much less precarious when she’s seated.  At least _this way_ she can’t drop her.

When he comes back, Dolls asks, “So, how’d she do, Gabi?”

“Okay, I guess.”  A truly ringing endorsement.

He hunches down, hands on his thighs, and grins, “You _guess?”_   Before he can get a clearer response, he scoops her up, tossing her easily over his shoulder.  “ _I_ think it’s pajama time,” he announces.  “Take this,” he orders Wynonna, offering a bottle that’s barely warm to the touch.  “Feed her, pretty self-explanatory stuff.”

“Your faith in me is astounding and _very_ misplaced,” she says seriously.  Unwillingly, she takes the bottle.  As he disappears down the hall, she looks down at the baby.  “Alright, kid.  Self-explanatory.”

Kira gurgles impatiently.

\--

It doesn’t take too terribly long to get Gabi to sleep, one slender arm curled around Marty the Hippo.  Once she’s out, he sneaks out of the bedroom, leaving the door cracked as per her mother’s exacting instructions, before he makes his way back into the living room.  The fact that no one’s screaming and nothing’s on fire is definitely a good sign.  He finds Wynonna slouched where he left her, watching the baby warily.  Some of the rigidity has gone out of her muscles, though, and there’s something very close to a satisfied smirk—not quite one yet, but it could be soon—playing around the corners of her mouth.  She hasn’t noticed him yet, and he takes a moment to just… let that be.  Then, he says lightly, “See?  Not so hard.”

“That’s what…” she trails off, eyes lifting to the ceiling, when his face falls flat.  He paces around her to snatch up a towel to drape over his shoulder.  He hears her whisper, “She’s very small.”

He’s struck suddenly by a memory, Tia when Gabi was born—she was only eight.  She said the same thing when she got to hold her baby cousin.  He can hear that same quiet sort of wonder in her voice, none of the actual real fear from earlier.

Something must show on his face, she’s got her eyes narrowed up at him, and he schools his expression into something less potentially mortifying.  “You’re doing fine.”

No matter how comfortable she may have gotten with the mere act of _holding_ the baby, she seems all to relieved to relinquish her when he holds out his hands.  He lays her across his left shoulder, murmuring unthinkingly as he pats her back.

“That’s disgusting,” she says when Kira spits up onto the towel.

Ignoring her in favor of walking around to catch the lights throughout the house, he jostles the baby until she falls asleep.  After he tucks her in, he stands in the middle of the room for a minute before Wynonna asks if he’s waiting for an invitation.  As soon as he sits on the opposite end of the couch, she dumps her feet into his lap and he rolls his eyes with a long-suffering sigh.  He realizes as he watches the decidedly more grown-up slasher flick she’d put on—and, really, doesn’t she get enough of this from real life?—that he’s _exhausted_.  It’s that bone-deep kinda tired that only comes with chasing a couple kids around for hours. 

At some point, Wynonna stands, comes back with a bottle of water that she drops on the coffee table before letting herself tumble onto the couch next to him, closer than before.  She ends up pressed all against his side, too close and too intimate, but he doesn’t ask her to move.  When she yawns, he shifts until his arm is around her shoulders and her head ends up on his collarbone.  She reaches across his chest and snags his hand, inspecting his painted nails, dragging the pad of her thumb over each one.

“It’s a good color,” she murmurs without a hint of irony.

“I thought I’d leave it for the wedding,” he responds, feeling surreal and out of his depth.  She doesn’t really answer, just _hmm_ s to let him know she heard him.  Having finished with the nail polish, she lets her grip on his hand drop, rests her palm flat on his chest under her chin.

“Is this weird?” she asks sleepily.  “This is weird, right?”

“Weirder than demons and witches and a century-old sharpshooter crawling out of a well?” he counters.

It should be weird, probably.  It’s not.  The weirdest part is that he’s perfectly comfortable.  He tries really valiantly to convince himself that it’s a combination of the fact that he _is_ so tired and she _is_ his partner and they’ve been closer before.  It’s not true, but he’s used to lying to himself about this, so he doesn’t let it trouble him too much.

“We could be laying in a bed,” he says.

Her face turns into his neck as she shimmies closer, and he tries to focus on anything but the way her breath tickles his skin when she responds, “I’m not sleeping with you in your sister’s marital bed.”

“Okay, ew,” he groans, shoving her away, “Don’t ever—”

She sits up, smiles lazily as she shoves her hair back, and he doesn’t immediately realize he hadn’t finished the thought.  Because he’s staring.  Because in the dark, lit only by the TV, there’s something relaxed and warm and—

He barely registers her ask, “What?” on the edge of a laugh.

Her hand is still planted on his chest.  He grimaces inwardly, it’s an absurd thing to be so fixated on, but her _hand_ is still planted on his _chest_ and he feels the ghost of a memory, like learning how to breathe again.

“I—” he’s saved by the sound of keys in the front door and clears his throat, gives her a smooth, “Never mind, it’s nothing.”

With a peculiar look, she pulls back, and her hand falls away as she leans over the back of the couch to ask Laurel how the bachelorette party was.


	5. Chapter 5

There are hands on her—no, a mouth—no, wait—there’s skin on skin on skin, a mishmash of _hot slick tongue cock touch me need you fuck goddamn_ —there’s salt on her tongue and sweat beading on her back—she’s hungry for it, arching into too-elusive touch, needy and _please please please please_ and—

 _Awake_.

That’s enough of a shock to occupy her attention for a minute, the shock of being awake and real and _really aroused_ and—and more importantly _he’s_ awake.  Fuzzy and a little lost, she tries to take stock, tries to figure out how to get outta this, but they’re so close they’re breathing the same air and she’s straddling him and, my God, _pressed hip-to-chest_ to him and he’s _hard_ , Jesus Christ.  She needs to get up.  She can’t focus on anything past the flex of his fingers on her thigh and the jut of his cock against her and this is _bad_ , this is _so, so bad_. 

She’s moving in the exact wrong direction before she even realizes she’s made the decision, lips crashing messily into his, and it hurts because she’s too desperate for it, but she can’t stop.  Hands fisted in his shirt, she’s probably mangling the poor thing, she can’t care, can’t care about anything but his tongue against hers and the way her top has ridden up and how she can’t quite stop rocking against him.  Alarm bells are going off in her head, drummed out by that steady _want want want_.  It’s so much—it’s too much—it’s not quite real and maybe she’s still dreaming, hopes she’s still dreaming, mumbles nonsense into his lips— _need_ and _please_ and _I want_ and _Dolls_.  She’s got her fingers on his skin, digging into the taut muscles of his chest, his arms, needs more.

“Fuck,” he grunts when she pulls away, lungs burning.

“Yeah,” she gasps, eyes squeezed shut, “Yeah, I—”

Loud as a gunshot, there’s a bang on the door, followed by, “Shower’s free!”

In a flash, she’s on her feet, stumbling and real and aching and, “I—shower,” she says nonsensically.  Cold shower.  Ice bath.  Flight to Siberia to bury herself in the tundra.  She doesn’t look at him.

She flees before he can say anything.

On her short trip down the hall, she fairly crashes into Raven and she’s not entirely sure what she says— _sorry, shower, hi, morning, bye_ —before she escapes to lock herself in the bathroom.  She catches sight of herself in the mirror briefly, all bedhead ( _sex hair_ , she thinks morosely) and swollen lips and wide-manic eyes.  Shame acrid in her gut, she looks away, rips open the shower curtain too vehemently, strips and steps into the tub before she even gets the water on.  The freezing stream is a welcome shock, something she’d never thought she’d say.  It doesn’t do much to erase the feeling of his body against hers or wash away the taste of him on her tongue, but it’s a welcome distraction from the throbbing lust she feels intimately.  She stays under the almost-painful spray until she’s shaking so hard she feels like she’s gonna fall apart.

\--

“Did you have a fight with your girl?” Raven asks from the doorway, no hint of mocking in her tone.  Too bad he’s busy trying to suffocate himself in his pillow.  He doesn’t answer, doesn’t lift his head, hopes against all reason that she’ll drop it but knows she won’t.  The bed creaks when she sits.  “Do you want me to start guessing?  You won’t like it if I do.”  He _doesn’t_ and he _won’t_ , but he doesn’t say anything.  More than anything, he’s a little worried if he opens his mouth he’s gonna tell her the truth.  “Okay, most obvious first—pregnancy scare?”  He snorts humorlessly.  “That’s a no.  Hm.  She wants a dog and you’re aggressively a cat person, and the relationship just can’t take the strain?”

“Nope,” he mumbles through a mouthful of cotton.

“Alright, then.  How about this—she’s actually got an evil twin who, unbeknownst to you, actually came on this trip with you?” she probes teasingly.

“Ray…”

“No?” she laughs.  “Oh!  I got it.  She’s actually an android commissioned by the BBD and she’s malfunctioning?”

He grunts and flops onto his back, taking a deep breath.  Suddenly, he doesn’t wanna keep this secret anymore—it was stupid, it was a terrible idea, he’s done, he’s ready to take his punishment.  “We’re not a couple.  I lied,” he says bluntly, staring straight up.

There’s a beat of stunned silence, then she curses, “Shit, now I owe Dad twenty bucks.”

 _That_ gets his attention. _“What?”_

His sister grins impishly.  “He somehow thought it was a little too convenient, I dunno, just saw right through you,” she shrugs.  And, just like that, he’s spilling _everything_ —that he’d only lied because he hated being set up, dragging her into the deception, the fact that she didn’t even _know_ they existed until two weeks ago.  All of it.  Once he’s done, he feels… better, he guesses.  Stupid, but better.  “I don’t understand how all that seemed easier than just telling us the truth,” she says blankly.

With an uncomfortable shuffle of his shoulders, he cringes, “I dunno.  You guys just—I knew you were just trying to help?”  Now that this whole disaster has played out with Wynonna literally leaping off of him like he’d burned her, his actual reasoning seems hazy.

“Are you _sure_ it wasn’t at least a little bit wishful thinking?” she presses.  “You love her, right?”  She continues too quickly for him to respond, and he’s kinda grateful for it.  “Men are so dumb, have I mentioned that yet?  I’m so glad I don’t have to deal with this on the regular.”  There’s a small smile playing on her face—not the broad one he expected, he’s probably too pathetic for that just now.  It’ll come.  “So, what happened?”

“I dunno,” he lies.  Rolling her eyes, she pinches his shoulder.  “I don’t wanna talk about it,” he amends.

She sighs, “Yeah, isn’t that what got you into this mess?”  Then, a little kinder, “You should talk to her, at least.  I’m not an expert, only known the chick for a couple days, but she either feels the same or she deserves like a dozen Oscars.”

“Okay, thanks, don’t you have some wedding disaster to help Jean with?” he pleads.

“Probably, it’s still early,” she shrugs.  Then, tugging his shirt, she orders, “Sit up, I’m gonna hug you.”  He does as he’s told grudgingly but hugs back just as tight.  “I really do think you should talk to her—you’re notoriously bad at that, remember Tony Rosario?” she smiles fondly.  “Anyway, at least then it’ll be out there, you know?”  After a thoughtful breath, she adds, “I’m not gonna tell anyone—well, not today.  Just… you know you can be honest with us, right, X?”

His throat feels thick with a level of emotion that _feels_ ridiculous, given the circumstances.  She sneaks in another hug before leaving him there, sitting in the middle of his bed, trying to decide whether or not he’s actually gonna take her up on her advice.  Like, as fucking miserable as it sounds to talk about his feelings, recent events are sorta forcing him to reassess his stance.  He’s very nearly talked himself into actually going for it by the time Wynonna gets back, wearing the same pajamas but with dripping hair.

Before he has a chance to say anything, she grimaces and says quickly, “So, about… _that_ , I’m sorry.  I just had one hell of a crazy sex dream.  Or I was possessed.  Cursed?  Anyway, can we, like, pretend it never happened?”

“Sure,” he chokes.

_Great._

\--

The ceremony takes place outdoors, and it’s kind of incredibly beautiful.  She ends up wedged between Adrienne and Dolls, his hand firmly held in hers in her lap—she can, she figures, endure this for another twenty-four hours, no matter how painful, it’s not exactly in good taste to ruin the wedding for anyone else because she couldn’t keep it in her pants—and in spite of everything going on around her, her gaze keeps being drawn down to their clasped hands.  He really did keep the nail polish.  It looks every bit like a little kid did it, but something about it makes her heart thrum.  From her place next to the bride, she _thinks_ she sees Raven look at her quizzically, but then her eyes are back on her youngest sister and the moment passes.

The vows are exchanged, heartfelt jokes and not-at-all-veiled references to a handful of TV shows she’s only vaguely familiar with, and Dolls laughs in all the right spots, low and rich.  She doesn’t think she’s ever been to another wedding in her adult life, but this one seems… well, like it should.  Full of love, full of adoration.  She tries to throw all of her attention on that and not the aching want growing in her chest that has no business being anywhere.

After the ceremony, there’s a cocktail hour where she’s carted around, introduced to family members whose names she has no hope of remembering.  Raven brings her and Dolls drinks, seems to have a silent conversation with her brother that leaves her feeling confused and left out.  She gives her brother a look that _seems_ disappointed before going back to whatever duties a maid of honor has—Wynonna certainly isn’t familiar; her sole frame of reference is _27 Dresses_.

“What was that?” she asks, frowning after the woman’s retreating back.

“Nothing,” he says, cool and distant enough that she bites down on the _bullshit_ she wants to hiss. 

Before she can say any more—which is probably for the best, honestly—he’s pulled away for photos.  She hovers at the edge, watching with a kind of longing she tries to stifle as he and his family are crammed together.  She tries to convince herself it’s just because this is…  Well, this isn’t exactly the sorta thing she’d get, is it?  _Marriage_ certainly isn’t something she’s ever wanted, and that’s not what this is about, anyway.  It’s the—the whole family shtick.  She feels a little childish, jealous of Dolls with his big family, his sisters who can smile at each other without hints of pain or resentment muddying the happiness the day is supposed to bring.  She’d always known there were things, _normal_ things she’d completely miss out on in life.

That _this_ is one of them that she’d even _want_ is a little unexpected.

(She also realizes with a touch of shock that her envy doesn’t actually cloud the fact that she’s bizarrely happy that he has this.  The guy’s always been supportive in a way she never knew how to reciprocate, and she’s—probably unnecessarily—genuinely glad he’s got a family she can feel almost like a visceral thing really cares about each other.)

By the time pictures are done, she’s all too happy to be led into the reception hall.

\--

The thing is, no matter how hard he tries not to focus on it, Dolls can feel Wynonna’s tension like a weight he’s carrying.  She does a good job of hiding it, he probably wouldn’t notice if he weren’t so attuned to _her_.  She smiles, she banters easily with his family like she’s known them all her life.  He supposes that’s one kind of survival tactic.  Still, he catches the flickers of sobriety that flit and flutter across her face when she’s not being directly engaged, and he sees something like wistfulness in her eyes while she watches Kit tease their dad.  It feels a little like he’s flaunting his full, tragedy-free family in her face.

Speeches are delivered, first dances are got through with thunderous applause, their table is cleared of plates littered with stray bits of food.  At length, they’re left alone at their table with his mom and Kit.

“So, X is the last holdout,” his sister says loudly, directing it at their mother but eyes flicking over to the two of them expectantly.  “I hope that girl knows he’ll probably never actually make the first move.”

Rising to the bait easily, Wynonna responds, “Don’t worry, I got that.  I’ll let you know when I start shopping for rings.”

“Don’t tease your brother,” his mother admonishes idly.

With a quiet whisper of _ladies’ room_ , Wynonna’s fingers are a too-gentle pressure on his wrist before she excuses herself from the table.  After a moment, he stands, says, “C’mon, Mom, let’s dance.”  His mother obliges, but begs off halfway through, reminding him that she still has to survive the rest of the reception, so he spends the rest of the time letting Gabi stand on his feet.  By the end of the song, he swings her into his arms and she goes squealing delightedly.  When he swoops down to deposit her back onto her feet, he catches Wynonna’s eye where she’s standing next to their abandoned chairs.

He can’t help the grin he offers, but Jean accosts him, tugs him into the fray, practically _forces_ him to do the Cha Cha Slide.  Wynonna’s got her phone out, obscuring her face, when he looks back, but he supposes he can’t say shit about that.

By the time he stumbles off the dance floor, too-warm in his tux and bowtie too tight at his throat, he’s panting and elated in a way that only really cheesy dances can make him.  She’s chatting with one of his cousins, politely engaged, and he sheds his jacket and hangs it on the back of his chair when he reaches her side.

“Get any good footage?” he asks, tugging at the knotted tie until it’s undone

“It felt a little like successfully videotaping bigfoot,” she nods.  “You looked ridiculous.”

Feeling bold, he wraps an arm around her middle and says, “Come look ridiculous with me.”

He watches her eyes drop as her lips twist.  At length, she looks back up.  “Alright.”

\--

Almost as soon as they reach the dance floor, the music slows and Wynonna, for an insane moment, wants to make some excuse to get her out of this—because _this_ would be too much to ask.  The moment slips by as she lets her arms wind around his neck.  She reasons it would just be _weird_ if Dolls’ girlfriend were to refuse to slow dance with him.  She may also be a little bit of a masochist.

“I forgot how nice you clean up,” he teases lightly and she feels a flush creep up her neck.  She doesn’t wanna think about the quiver of excitement she’d felt when she’d found it, a white dress with a paint-splatter floral print that whispers against her skin like satin.

“Yeah, well, you look like a mess,” she snarks, bringing her hand to the tie he’s unknotted.  “Get it together, dude.”

Slow dances are weird in that Wynonna doesn’t know what to do with herself.  It stings of high school, the awkward shuffling and swaying side-to-side, the way she doesn’t know quite where her eyes should be.  She finds herself looking at the other dancers because he’s got _that face_ , the one that says he’s about to say something heartwarming and sweet, something she wouldn’t know how to deal with, and this isn’t the place she wants to do that at all.

“I hope you know,” she says, needing to fill the space between them with as much nonsense as she can until the song is over and he’s touching her less, “I’m not gonna marry you just to keep this lie going.”

“Of course not,” he scoffs.  “We were planning to live in sin for fifty years.”

That makes a giddy bubble of laughter burst through her and she shakes her head.  “Fif _teen_ , Xavier,” she corrects.  “See if you can handle me _then_ , then tell me if you wanna go for fifty.”

His eyes go very serious then and it’s too big and too grave and she wants to take it back, wants the ground to open her up and swallow her and drag her right to hell because _that would be kinder_ , but then the DJ announces that it’s time for the bouquet toss, so could all the single women gather in the center of the floor.  She’s vaguely aware that Dolls is pushing her in that direction.

“Single means unmarried,” he whispers helpfully before shoving her into the small crowd of women.

Awesome.

Feeling very much like she would rather not be part of this _particular_ tradition, she hovers near the back of the group, shoots Dolls a vengeful look, and she _doesn’t even care_ if his family sees it.  Jean steps out in front of them, makes a show of surveying the women who are already elbowing each other playfully.  Wynonna _swears_ she sees Jean lock eyes with her and wink before turning her back to them.  It all happens really quickly—the bouquet goes up in a graceful arch, Wynonna steps forward into the press of bodies in spite of herself, reaches up to catch it—

And then there’s a blinding pain in her nose, making her eyes start watering, exploding through her skull.  She hears a curse, then an apology, and she’s dimly aware of the bunch of stems clutched in one hand even as the other comes away from her face spotted with blood.

Someone gives her a cloth napkin— _white, pristine,_ she thinks woefully—that she shoves up under her bleeding nose.  Head tipped back, she allows herself to be led off the floor with a distant, throbbing sort of embarrassment.  She realizes it’s Dolls and his dad, corralling her on either side, as they make it into the narrow hallway next to the bathrooms.

She thanks them thickly as someone guides her onto a bench.

\--

The catering staff helps him gather a bag of ice.  When he gets back to where he’d left Wynonna dazedly pinching the bridge of her nose, Jean is crouched in front of her even as he hears her insist she go back to the party.

“S’no big deal,” she says, muffled through the soaked cloth held to her face.  “Really, I’m fine.”

Jean favors him with a grimace and he gives her a one-armed hug, tells her he’s got it from here.  He offers Wynonna the ice, wrapped in a heavy dish towel.  “I should probably take you to a hospital,” he mumbles, uneasy at seeing her hurt.

“Did you get it on camera?” she jokes, wincing when she presses the ice to her face.

“Yeah,” he breathes.

“I don’t think it’s broken,” she says.  He looks at her doubtfully.  She did take a pretty zealous elbow to the face.  It takes a few minutes, but the bleeding stops, and she complains that her neck is killing her from holding her head back.

He regards her, face smeared with blood, before offering, “C’mon, Earp.  Let’s get you cleaned up.”

In the restroom, she cocks her hip against the sink and lets him gingerly wipe her face with a damp paper towel.  She giggles suddenly, and when he hums the question that he doesn’t really have the energy to ask, she says, “This _would_ happen.  I didn’t even _want_ that bouquet.”

Her nose is a little swollen, eyes puffy, and all he wants to do is slot his mouth against hers, but he knows it would taste like iron, knows all it would accomplish is hurting her more.  Unnecessarily, he cards his fingers through her hair.  He pretends not to notice when she follows the touch.

“I’m still taking you to the hospital,” he says decisively.

“You’re gonna miss the rest of the party,” she warbles, putting extra effort in making each word sound natural in spite of the fact that she sounds like she’s got a particularly bad case of the flu.  He shushes her.

“Just let me say goodbye to Jean, they’re leaving tonight for the honeymoon, okay?”

Brows forming a sharp V, she bites her lip but nods, mutters, “Tell ‘em I said bye, thanks, blah blah.”

He snorts.

His sister is all too understanding, hugs him tight, promises to send lots of pictures.  “An obscene amount of pictures,” she emphasizes.

“As long as the volume is the only part that’s obscene,” he teases, making her wrinkle her nose in disgust.

“Tell Wynonna we’re really glad she came,” she orders, hugging him again before he snags his jacket and darts out to the bench where he’d left her.

“Can I have, like, twelve more drinks?” Wynonna asks vaguely, back to holding ice to her face.  She’s still got the bouquet, limp in her hand like she’s forgotten she’s carrying it.  He pulls her to her feet and drops his jacket around her bare shoulders, and her eyes widen a little at that but she doesn’t say anything. 

“Tell you what,” he offers, nodding towards the side exit so he doesn’t have to walk her through the crowded reception hall because he’s many things but he’s not _cruel_ , “We get you through a CAT scan and make sure nothing in there’s rattling, and I’ll buy you a whole bottle.”

Steps heavy and slow, she leans into his side and he reflexively wraps his arm around her.  “No you won’t.”

\--

Here’s what she learns at the emergency room:  It just so happens to be the full moon.  She asks Dolls without expecting an answer why it is that so much shit goes down on full moons—not even just in the creepy supernatural way.  As is made evident by the crowded waiting room, even regular people can’t help but get caught up in the craziness.  The A/C is a little overenthusiastic in there, and she finds herself grateful for his jacket, slips her arms into the sleeves.

The thing is that she’s more miserable with each passing minute—it’s not the pain, that’s faded to a dull throb, an ache behind her eyes.  It’s the knowledge that he skipped out on the rest of the wedding to slouch in an uncomfortable plastic chair while they wait for her name to be called, all just to confirm nothing is broken.

“I’m sorry about this,” she mutters, stuffing her fists into the jacket pockets.

“Sorry you got whacked in the face?  Don’t blame you,” he replies, voice light but eyes knowing.  “I wasn’t just gonna do the Macarena while you…  I’m not 100% a dick.”

The snort that drags out of her stings. “I just feel kinda bad—you came all this way, you know?” she says uncertainly.  Before she can say any more, a nurse calls her name—mispronounces it in a comfortable, anonymous sort of way she always liked—and she tugs his sleeve to drag him along with her.

Her vitals are taken and recorded and the florescent lights do nothing to help her headache.  When asked what happened, Dolls helpfully shows the nurse the video.  Still too raw to be ready to laugh at it, she elbows him from where she’s perched on the edge of the hospital bed.  They’re left alone after that with a promise that a doctor will be by soon, but soon is a relative term. 

She’s not sure what makes him say it, but he interrupts her zoning out with, “Raven knows the truth.  Apparently, Dad guessed, too.”

She looks over at him, tired enough not to be too shocked, but his face is less pinched than she’d have expected.  “Did I—”

“No,” he shakes his head firmly.  “I told her.  This morning.”  He shrugs.  She can’t quite make out his expression.  It could be the head trauma or the blood loss, but he looks like he’s steeling himself.  “I was thinking…” he pauses, frowning at his shoes.  “I was thinking—my parents go all out for Christmas.  I know it’s not usually your thing, but the house gets all decorated, Kit programs the lights to music, the cider is to die for.  Maybe Purgatory could spare us for a day?”

“I don’t wanna lie to your family anymore,” she says faintly.

His eyes lock onto hers with a force that would knock her over if she weren’t sitting down.  “The thing is, I was hoping we wouldn’t be lying this time,” he suggests, so innocuous and ambiguous that it could almost mean anything.  Slowly, so painfully slowly, his hand comes up, falters for the space of a breath, before his fingers brush lightly over her jaw.

She has this sorta stupid realization that she’s about to be kissed about half a second before his lips touch hers.  It’s gentle and chaste and like nothing else she’s ever felt, and it’s over too soon—too soon, he’s pulling away, and she lurches forward, kissing him so hard their noses bump and she yanks back with a curse.  He cringes sympathetically, but his eyes crinkle happily and every part of her feels light and warm.

\--

Once they’ve confirmed there’s no lasting damage, that she’ll probably have a couple nasty shiners for a few days but nothing worse, he’s all too happy to get her back to the car, all too happy to let her distract him at the open passenger side door with slow, lazy kisses.  This isn’t how he’d imagined it, kissing her in earnest for the first time since that night months ago, but in so many ways it’s better because it’s _real_.  He was right, it tastes like blood, but she smiles against his lips, whispers _one more, one more, one more_ , until he has to take a full step back because it’s near four in the morning and they have an eleven o’clock flight tomorrow.  She gives him tempting, plaintive puppy dog eyes, but he prevails.  It’s something of a hollow victory, but her fingers twine with his as soon as he takes his place behind the wheel.

As he drives, she asks pensively, “How many thousands of dollars did I just rack up in medical debt to get told I was right?”

It’s not what he expected _at all_ and it surprises a hard laugh out of him.  At a stop light, he glances over to see her watching him with a satisfied smirk.  “It’s gonna be a lot,” he warns.

She only groans, dramatically dismayed, but she traces the lines on his palm the whole way back to his parents’ house.  Almost as soon as the car is in park, she surges over the console, fingers crushing his collar, but the kiss is sweet, slow, exploratory.  She sits back into her seat, and he follows, hears her whisper, “This better not be some freaky, concussion-induced dream.”

He feels her hand flatten, her palm slide over his chest, as he answers, “Not a dream.  Real.”

“I can’t believe there’s an actual, positive emotion in there,” she teases, but there’s something serious in her eyes.

“Wynonna, I love you,” he says quietly.  It falls heavily between them, and there’s a breath when he thinks it may have been wrong, may have been too much.

“Huh,” she breathes, shocked but not upset, he thinks.  Her fingers brush over his cheekbone, around the shell of his ear, and there’s something like wonder across her face as she watches her progress.  “I—I mean—”

“You don’t _have_ to say it back,” he says.  He waits for a sting that never comes, not when she’s smiling like that.  Her mouth crashes into his in a way that has to hurt, but he holds her there with a hand on the back of her neck, drinking in her soft sigh.

“I do, though,” she mumbles when they pull away.  “Feel the—love you, too.”  She grimaces, but it seems to be directed more inward than actually to him.  Then, she sits up a little straighter, seeming to realize for the first time where she is.  “We should probably stop making out like teenagers out here.  Don’t wanna attract a show.”

Well, there’s some wisdom to that.  There’s a light on in the living room, and they find Raven and Adrienne opposite each other on the couch.  They stop talking, and his sister looks pointedly at their joined hands before a slow grin spreads across her face.  Before she gets a chance to mention it, though, Adrienne—being an actual good person whose sole motivation in life doesn’t _seem_ to be watching Dolls squirm—asks, “What’s the prognosis?”

“That this guy’s just _really_ dramatic,” Wynonna replies quickly, elbowing him gently but offering a private smile.

“Sounds about right,” she snickers.

\--

By the time they make it upstairs, it’s gone past 5 AM, and there’s something so _typical_ of having spent most of her last day of vacation in a hospital waiting room and arriving to a bed so exhausted she can’t do anything _fun_.  As soon as the door shuts behind them, his mouth is on hers again, and she’s _never_ gonna get over this, never gonna get over the burn of his beard against his chin or the heat of his hands through her dress or how he kisses with a focus that makes her dizzy.

“We should stop,” she sighs when he pulls away for breath.  She loses that train of thought when his lips are at her throat, fingers gripping the back of his shirt.  “We gotta stop,” she says again, tipping her head back further and shuddering when he sucks a kiss at the base of her throat.  “If we don’t stop, I’m gonna climb you like a _tree_ , and I’m not doing that in your _parents’ house_ , Xavier.”

He jerks back and gives her that tight, unimpressed look that she can really only counter with a smile.  His eyes roll, but he pulls away and leaves her cold.  She has the sudden urge to help him undress, wants her hands on as much skin as she can.  In an uncharacteristic show of foresight, she snags some pajamas out of her bag and sneaks into the bathroom, pausing only once at the bedroom door to toe out of her heels.  The mirror, as unflattering as it was this morning, shows her the beginning of bruises under her eyes.  _Attractive_ , she thinks with a snort, unable to keep herself from touching the swollen bridge of her nose.

She gingerly wipes away her makeup, what little is left anyway, and struggles with the zipper of her dress before letting it drop to the floor with a quiet _whoosh_.  By the time she gets back to the room, he’s stretched out on the bed, blanket covering him to the waist, but he’s not wearing a shirt.

“I can’t believe these words are coming out of my mouth,” she says in a rush as she catches the light switch, “But you better be wearing pants.”

He doesn’t make any reply, so she casts a curious hand down his side when she climbs under the covers.  She’s not sure if she’s disappointed or not when she finds a waistband.  With a small noise, impatient and dissatisfied, he rolls onto his side to face her and she feels a dry press of lips to her forehead.

“Cheeseball,” she mutters, fondness swelling in her chest as she wraps her arm around his middle, peppering his shoulder and neck with quick kisses because she _can_ (and maybe a little because she’s worried still that this _isn’t_ real).

“We only have three hours to sleep,” he warns, but it’s gentler than she’d’ve expected.

Grumbling, she stops.  There’s a buzz just beneath her skin and she’s _sure_ she won’t actually be able to sleep.

She does.

\--

For maybe the first time since they got to Arizona, he wakes up before Wynonna.  The alarm on his phone shrieks in his ear and he blindly shuts it off, struggles not to let his eyes slide back shut.  Eight, so it only gives them two hours to get their things together, get the car back to Enterprise, and get to the airport, which is _really pushing it_.  After less than three hours of sleep, it’s daunting, and Wynonna’s weight in his arms is inviting.  Instead of allowing himself be pulled back into sleep, he strokes through her hair until she winces awake.

“Good morning,” she says cautiously.

“The bruise on your face looks like Russia,” he answers.  She favors him with a glare that has all the power of an affronted kitten.  It doesn’t, but it sounded better, lighter, than the dozen other things he wants to say. 

“My sister’s gonna have _questions_ ,” she huffs, experimentally prodding her cheeks close to her nose and hissing lowly.

“Nah,” he smiles.  “I sent the video.”

“You’re a dick,” she fires back, but it’s tempered when her lips slide against his.

“You have morning breath.”

“I take back any nice things I have ever said about you to your mom,” she says primly, pushing away to force herself sluggishly out of bed.  “In fact, I’m gonna,” she pauses to stifle a yawn.  “I’m gonna go down and tell her how mean you are.”

It’s said petulantly but with no real force behind it.

He stands, cups her jaw in both of his hands.  “Hey,” he says.  “Good morning.”

It rests easily between them, as her own hands slide up his chest.  “Go put on a shirt, I need, like, a swimming pool full of coffee,” she orders.

“That sounds awesome,” he responds blankly.

Like their first morning there, his dad is the only person downstairs—honestly, none of them inherited his genuine preference for waking up early, and they are all disgusted by it—and he _actually looks up at them from his paper_ , and he almost wants to tell Wynonna how significant that is, but his father is cringing up at her bruised face.  Instead, he orders her to sit, pressing the words into her hair, with the promise that he’ll make her a cup.  He hears him ask how she’s feeling, but he’s out of earshot by the time she answers, only catches the husky edge of just-short-of-sarcastic laughter.  The shock of knowing how she takes her coffee—sweet enough to make him grimace—has long since worn off for _him_ , but she looks pleased when he sets her mug in front of her.

There’s a sound of rustling paper before his dad breaks the gentle silence, makes him drag his attention away from her with a sly, “Thanks for the twenty bucks, by the way.”

 "Yeah, well," he says lamely with a shrug.

"We're dating  _now_ , we decided," Wynonna grins, favoring him with a quick wink.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi! Thanks so much for reading! There _might_ be an epilogue coming, but I wouldn't hang my hat on it!
> 
> Swing by my [Tumblr](http://johnisntevendead.tumblr.com) where I talk way too much about these nerds!


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